


Missing

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 14:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20977124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Aziraphale is late for a meeting.Late because he can’t find his coat.And Crowley is being of no help whatsoever.But he has his reasons.





	Missing

“What are you … weren’t you just … where the Devil are you?” Aziraphale mutters, tossing the couch cushions one by one with a fervor that suggests he believes they’ve done him a great disloyalty.

Crowley, dressed in a t-shirt and lounge pants which would be wrinkled from sleep if not for _demon, _watches curiously from the doorway as Aziraphale turns his hostility towards another innocent piece of living room furnishing.

“It was here yesterday!” Aziraphale continues, storming over to the coat tree in the corner by the door and giving it a stern eye. “What have you done with it? Hmm? Have you eaten it?”

“Aziraphale?” Crowley calls from a safe distance, debating whether or not he wants to risk life and limb by getting in the angel’s way.

“What is it, Crowley?” Aziraphale snaps as he marches back to the sofa and violates the cushions one more time.

“Nothing. I was just wondering if there’s a reason why you’re ransacking the place.”

“I can’t find my coat! And if I don’t leave soon, I’m most definitely going to be late,” Aziraphale explains, barreling out of the living room, down the hall, and into the master bathroom.

Crowley snickers when he hears the commode flush. “I don’t think your coat has gone down the toilet, angel.”

“I don’t see why it couldn’t! I’ve looked everywhere else and it’s nowhere to be found!”

“Maybe you didn’t wear it when you came over last night.”

Aziraphale’s incredulous face pops out through the bathroom door. “Crowley, I’ve worn that coat every day for over one-hundred-and-eighty years! Why would last night be the exception?”

“Dunno. Just trynna help.”

“Then put your eyes to good use and look around, please! I’ve only got …” Aziraphale pops open his pocket watch and gasps “… _fifteen minutes_!”

Crowley shakes his head, overly amused by his poor angel who has gone so native he seems to honestly forget that a snap of his fingers can instantly transport him anywhere he needs to go. But what Aziraphale seems to like about living on Earth among the humans is the ritual of things – keeping to a schedule, making appointments, getting ready at a certain hour and being on time. He likes feeling a part of the flow instead of bouncing around along the outskirts the way angels and demons usually do.

“I can miracle you up an overcoat if you’d like.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Aziraphale says, rummaging through the drawers of Crowley’s vanity as if he expects to find his coat hiding betwixt a dozen bottles of expensive cologne, “but I’d like _my_ coat, if it’s all the same to you.”

Crowley pushes off the wall he’s been leaning against and saunters over to his frazzled angel. “Yes, well, seeing as you can’t find your coat, and you’re obviously running behind, how about we stop being stubborn about things and you let me dress you just this once.”

Crowley puts his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders to pause him but Aziraphale starts examining him, looking him over left and right as if he might have his coat tucked into the waistband of his thin, black pants. But when even he has to admit he’s being ridiculous, he abandons his search with a sigh.

“Yes, all right,” he says. “If you wouldn’t mind, that is.”

“Not at all. In fact …” Crowley leans in and gives his nose a peck “… it would be an honor.” He takes a step back, looks Aziraphale over from head to toe through thumbs and forefingers as if gauging his size, then snaps his fingers, pulling up from the floor with a dramatic flourish. He turns Aziraphale toward the mirror so the angel can see for himself, straightening his shoulders and pulling at the seams, tailoring the coat with each tug for a better fit. “Well … whaddya think?”

Aziraphale shifts side to side, giving the garment the scrutinous once over of someone with an eagle eye for fashion … which he has not. Not by modern standards anyhow. But all in all, he has no complaints. It’s not _his_ coat but it’s similar, an updated rendition, a stylish enough replacement. And he likes it. He really does.

“It’s … it’s a fine coat,” Aziraphale marvels, holding his arms out straight to check the length of the sleeves. “But …”

“But _what_?”

Aziraphale grins at Crowley’s reflection in the mirror, wondering how he could have overlooked such a detail. “Black isn’t really my color.”

“Oh. Right. Habit.” Crowley snaps his fingers again, coloring the fabric a creamy eggshell. “How’s that?”

“It’s lovely, dear.” Aziraphale turns and kisses his cheek. “Thank you.”

“You’re … you’re welcome,” Crowley grumbles bashfully. Kisses he can handle. _Thank yous_ he still has trouble with. “Anytime. Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you? I can have you there in thirty seconds.”

“That’s all right, my dear. You’ll be bored to tears.”

“Yes, I will. But I’ll be quiet about it.”

“Really? Is today not a day ending in _y_?”

“Ha … ha …”

“I won’t be but an hour or two.” Aziraphale gives himself one last look in the mirror, then hurries for the door. “Three tops. Now, if you see my coat around, please …”

“I’ll hang it up all nice and neat like. I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“Let me pick you up after, hmm?” Crowley says, catching Aziraphale by the wrist, delaying him a few seconds more. But Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind this time. “We’ll go to the museum, have lunch in the square, go for a walk around the pond - make an afternoon of it.”

Aziraphale’s glowing smile is all the answer Crowley needs. “That sounds perfect.”

Crowley watches Aziraphale bustle out the door and speed-walk down the hall to the lift. He waits till it arrives and the doors slide open, then watches his angel step on. When the lift doors slide shut behind him, Crowley closes the door to his flat and becomes immediately aware that he’s alone.

Crowley has never felt lonely in his flat before. Of course, he hasn’t spent much in the way of quality time there. But it’s exceptionally lonely without Aziraphale. Quiet, too. Aziraphale may not be chatty all the time, but there’s a hum that fills the place when he’s around, constant but understated. It doesn’t needle at Crowley’s ears and annoy him. It’s comforting, like a handmade quilt, each stitch filled from end to end with love.

It’s happiness, Crowley realized not too long ago - a softly whispered hymn that follows Aziraphale everywhere, which makes Crowley’s flat seem deathly silent in comparison when the angel leaves.

Crowley decides to return to his other happy place – bed. For a few more hours anyway while he waits for Aziraphale. His angel always claims these Optimist Club meetings will take only a few hours, but the last one went over by three. Meh. Crowley doesn’t mind. Aziraphale enjoys them. He has friends there. Friends that appreciate brandy, books, cheesecake, and gossip almost as much as Aziraphale does. Besides, if he takes too long, Crowley will simply snap himself into something skin tight and crash the proceedings. That’ll get things moving along.

But for now – bed.

And before he does …

He takes a minor detour through his office. He strolls over to his desk and opens the bottom drawer – the _largest_ one. He reaches in and, ever so carefully, pulls out Aziraphale’s coat. He holds it up by the shoulders and gives it a good long look. Aziraphale is going to be cross when he finds out Crowley swiped it, but Crowley had his reasons.

_Good_ reasons.

He can’t think of them at the moment, but they’re good reasons, he remembers that much.

Crowley slips his arms into the sleeves as he walks to the bedroom and wraps himself up tight. The lapels overlap and he hugs them closed, burying his nose in the fabric and breathing in deep. It’s still warm. Somehow, even without Aziraphale wearing it for more than six hours, it’s toasty. And it smells like him – not just his cologne, but _Aziraphale, _Angel of the Eastern Gate, with a hint of himself thrown in. That’s probably the most thrilling part. After all the hugs they’ve shared, all the kisses, he’s managed to weave himself into the fibers of his angel’s favorite coat.

Crowley leaps onto his side of the bed and stretches out, rolling left and right with his arms wrapped around him until he’s trapped inside a snug hug of fabric.

_‘Yup. This is nice,’_ Crowley thinks as he snuggles in. _‘Not as nice as having Aziraphale here, but definitely the next best thing.’_

Then he falls fast asleep.


End file.
